Tall Enough, Dark Enough
by tidvis
Summary: John Watson is short, but still tall enough to see the locked doors behind Sherlock's eyes. He is short, but still tall enough to catch the hidden scent under Sherlock's tousled hair, at the place behind his ears. This the picture, and make of it what you will.


The scene: a room embedded by a refracted light which is striped like the blinds it is penetrating. Shades of black, brown and grey, and only occasionally a dash of colour, like purple and white. The scents: vague hints of an unidentified chemical residue, the dried remains of Earl Gray teabags in two matching cups, and the sharp smell of ingrained sweat, practically burned into every piece of furniture and every item of clothing which lay scattered about the place. The sounds: an orchestra of urban noises seeping in through an open window, the ticking of an antique clock, and two bodies breathing.

Enter Sherlock Holmes: male, currently the worlds only consulting detective. While emotionally inept and displaying strong anti-social tendencies, he should be considered nothing less than a genius.

Next, John Watson: male, retired Army doctor sent home after having been wounded in action, and currently cohabiting an apartment with the aforementioned detective. Loyal, although simple-minded, displaying signs of codependency as well as self-esteem issues.

This is the picture: two men. 221B Baker Street, London. Seventeen steps up the stairs.

The detective is pacing the room, while the other man observes. Speaking rapidly, the detective is exuberant with revelation, as his case unfolds itself practically before his eyes. The other man struggles to keep up, unable to follow the connections and make sense of the clues as effortlessly as the detective, and finds himself mostly staring in awe, lips parted, as he marvels and shudders before the geniality of the man before him.

Suddenly speechless, Sherlock Holmes stops to look down at him, hands at his back. In this place and at this hour he looks less like a man, and more like an ethereal, otherworldly spirit; all cheekbones and protruding veins under thin skin, angles and lines of perfect symmetry hidden under delicate, finely tailored clothes. His eyes alight with intelligence, he seem at the same time distant and unusually present. With spidery limbs engaged in this performance, with a stature narrow and tall, features so sharp they could cut you and an intellect to match, he is practically dazzling. His mind always working, he seems to be constantly in pursuit; always pacing, fidgeting, calculating – moving toward something – busying himself with something, anything. Yet now he is calm, collected. Motionless. Underneath the shirt is hidden his chest – bony and pale, seemingly hairless and innocent like a child; a malnourished physique, constantly driven by the mismatched, overly active brain into intricate and frequently life-threatening situations. Exceptions come rarely and only in moments when the pursuit is temporarily pushed aside in favour for a) sleep, b) a drug high, or c) complete concentration, whence the physical machinery is shut off, so that all energy can be rerouted to the intellect, allowing it to roam freely.

John Watson looks back at him in silence. In contrast, he is mostly still, and his body wider, shorter and looser than Sherlock's; only every reaching as far as to the detective's collarbones even at is tallest – which is still far enough for him to encase them with his lips and slide his tongue across them, then dipping it into the _suprasternal fossa _at the bottom of Sherlock's neck. John Watson is short, but still tall enough to catch the hidden scent under Sherlock's tousled hair, at the place behind his ears. John Watson is short, but still tall enough to press his cheek against Sherlock's back, grazing the space between his shoulder blades with his thin blonde eyelashes.

The glowing paleness of Sherlock's eyes pull John to his feet. Sherlock stands before him, all edges and sharp lines, and his appearance seems almost as logical and fixed as his mind. The single yet obvious exception, of course, being the hair; that dark mess seated on top as a kind of barrier, or perhaps more like a buffer, between the brilliant mind which he cherishes, and the loud world he wants to reject but cannot, because, ironically, he is dependant on it. Raising his hand carefully, John touches that hair now, pushing the bangs aside to touch Sherlock's forehead. It's cold, but strangely soft.

Casually studying him, John counts the geometrical figures in his face – the spherical black pupils, dark enough to engulf him, the rectangularity of the nose when observed head-on, and the triangularity that is the dip of Sherlock's delicious Cupid's bow. From these shapes, he deduces that Sherlock Holmes is not real; that he is is, in fact, impossible, because human beings are never this immaculate. So when Sherlock leans in, wrapping his spiderlike limbs around John's waist, John finds it difficult to accept. Even as they move, sinking down onto the sofa, he reminds himself that none of it is true; that he is kissing an idea, that he is craving an ideal, and that he is plunging repeatedly into the impossible. And though he can trace the salty beads of sweat over that burning skin with his tongue, and though he can feel the intense shivering, the hot-blooded writhing beneath him, he never fully believes it, so he is never really there.

"Oh, _fuck –_"

A muffled profanity spat into the detective's shoulder as John bites it, temporarily marking it with his dentition.

"Go on. Harder!" This from the mysterious creature underneath, his vision slowly fading into black.

Vanishing, Sherlock sinks rapidly into that no man's land of bliss and terror, of love and of death – stuck somewhere between a body governed by muscles of steel and anxiety, and the worn down, dirty sofa cushions – clutching at anything his hands can reach, be it an armrest, or hair, or skin, to not disappear completely.

As the powerful, rocking motion flows through them with momentum, their eyes unexpectedly catch hold of each other, and for a pause no longer than four beats John then, finally, sees the man. In the sheltered light of this room, his own face reflected in Sherlock's glossy, wide eyes, the impossible idea of an ideal disattaches itself and the man breaks free – moaning, writhing, clutching; human. Genius set aside, so that emotion can finally reign.

It is in this manner that the man reveals himself, though only rarely: body and mind limp, as they are consumed by lust, by a rush, at rare occasions even by fear or fury or tragedy – though never by joy. The illusion breaking, suddenly shattered. John then presses his cold cheek to Sherlock's back and knows that that body is made out of flesh, and he knows it won't be long until he will once more allow those limbs to lock him down, entangling him until two beings violently merge back into one; four-legged, two-headed, tongues desperate and cocks fervent, domineering. Panting, groaning, grabbing; ferocious. The creature blinded, relentless and wanting. Unending in their lust, as they are meant to be.

This is the picture: it is the picture of a man who refuses to reveal himself, if not to and within the bounds of the shadows, whence the intellect and the reason cannot reach – seeking his opportunity every time the otherwise so calculating detective happens to forget, for once, to keep those doors in the back of his brilliant, blinding mind locked shut. Bathing in the primal substances of desire, of salt and embittered anguish, and in the weakened, drug-induced state of oblivion, Sherlock will forget to lock his doors, and the man will sneak his foot into the crack, keeping it ajar. John Watson will come, in time, to crave just this; this single sign of weakness and humanity – to the point where he will learn how to tear those doors open and throw himself into the darkness within, drinking it in, accepting it as truth and using it to comfort himself. Meanwhile, Sherlock is crying out; a man desperately wanting to be anything but just that.

If he can't be an angel – even then, he would rather be a devil than a man.

John Watson is short, but was always tall enough to see the locked doors behind Sherlock's eyes. From the first day, he wanted to tear them open and to force the man into the open – to see that, despite appearances, the genius really is human underneath. And perhaps Sherlock Holmes is human, and perhaps he is even aware of it – but he will never be seen carrying his humanity with pride or dignity. And that is the burden which they both share, and which shall keep them inevitably bound to each other. Locked in the fight for the man within – one trying to vanquish him, the other to pull him into the light – they will continue inexhaustibly until the other gives in.

This is the picture, and make of it what you will.

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**AN:** Been working on this for quite a while and I'm still not sure I'm satisfied with it. It's quite different from what I usually write (at least the tone of it), so maybe that's why. If you enjoyed your read, I'd love to know why. Comments are always highly appreciated! Love, tidvis.


End file.
